


Raised in Captivity

by wheel_pen



Series: Miscellaneous Smallville Stories [3]
Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:10:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The child that appeared in Smallville during the meteor shower wasn’t found by the Kents, but rather someone else, with the resources to study him properly. This story is unfinished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raised in Captivity

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Underage warning: This story may contain human or human-like teenagers, in high school, in sexual situations.
> 
> 2\. The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

Martha always got a little nervous at this part. Standing there, arms loaded with the breakfast tray, facing one door while the other whooshed shut behind her, momentarily sealed into the tiny airlock... She wasn’t claustrophobic, as a rule, but those few seconds before the door in front of her opened, she couldn’t help thinking about all the things they could do to her, right then, if they wanted to, and she always glanced nervously at the air vents as if expecting them to someday produce a lethal gas. She told herself firmly that was nonsense, and that the door would open again in just a moment—and it always had. So far.

Martha knew by now to look down before she took a step into the suite, in case anything had been left on the floor in her path. Today, at least, the neutral brown carpet of the front room was clear of shoes, dishes, books, clothes, video games, DVD cases, and other assorted ephemera typical of a teenage boy... or rather there was a clear path _across_ the room, to the bedroom door. She shook her red hair disapprovingly as she carried the tray past the big screen TV, the couch, and the bookcases. She would have to get after him about keeping his rooms clean.

Martha set the breakfast tray down on the table in the corner and rapped firmly on the bedroom door. “Tavi?” she called, when she heard no movement inside. “Time to get up!” She knocked again and could almost _hear_ the men on the other side of the two-way mirror sighing. If anything were wrong with the boy, of course a team would have rushed in there already; so she was certain his failure to answer was because he was just ignoring his alarm clock. And the men in the control booth, who also had a two-way mirror into his bedroom, probably _knew_ he was still buried under the blankets and were wishing she would just hurry up already. Martha liked to give the boy a little privacy, however, even if it wasn’t worth much in his current situation.

Finally she slid the door open and stepped into the dark bedroom. The floor was messier here and she almost tripped over a large sneaker before toeing it out of the way. “Tavi!” she repeated, more firmly. The lump under the covers on the bed in the corner shifted a little but made no attempt to get up. Sighing, Martha picked her way over to the blinds and lifted them, spilling bright sunlight into the room. It wasn’t a window, of course; there was no way the boy’s rooms would have an outside wall. Instead it was just a panel of bulletproof glass at the bottom of a complex sequence of tubes and mirrors that piped natural sunlight, augmented by sunlight-spectrum light bulbs, into the boy’s rooms.

“Come on, sleepyhead,” she told him, good-naturedly swatting what she judged to be the rear end of the lump. “Time to get up.”

There was a rumble from underneath the blankets and Martha lifted a pillow, causing the boy whose head was underneath to scramble away from the invading light. “I don’t feel good,” he whined, yanking the covers back over himself. This action exposed his feet, which dangled off the end of the bed. He was getting very tall, too tall for the twin size bed, really.

Martha’s face took on a pained expression. She had read some of the reports about the boy—there _were_ a few things she needed to know, to do her job, though most of it was classified—and she knew that he was virtually invulnerable to injury or illness. His only real weakness seemed to be the strange green crystals which all personnel were “armed” with—the small lead box, heavy in Martha’s pocket, was always the last item she was given by the guard before proceeding into the airlock. She had never had cause to use it on the boy, and as far as she could, she never _would_ use it. Given his resistance to harm, she therefore knew exactly what the boy meant when he said he didn’t feel good—that it wasn’t so much a _physical_ discomfort as an _emotional_ one.

Martha sat down on the edge of the bed and patted his head soothingly through the covers, until he poked it back out a bit and she could run her fingers through his silky dark hair. “It’s about time for a haircut,” she told him fondly. “Or do you like it better longer?” Usually she kept his hair short, but she’d let it grow out a bit more this time and was surprised to see it turn curly.

The boy shrugged his broad shoulders, uncaring, then turned his head to face her with those piercing green eyes. Forget the greater strength and speed the boy also possessed; it was those eyes that would be the death of her, Martha knew. “My stomach hurts,” he complained pitifully, giving her his best pleading puppy dog eyes. As if either of them really thought that was going to change anything.

Still, Martha felt his forehead—warm, but it was always warm, as his body temperature seemed to be a little above average anyway. “Maybe you’ll feel better if you get up and eat something, sweetie,” she suggested, although they both knew he wouldn’t. He sighed and tried to burrow back under the covers. “There’s toast, and pancakes, and fresh strawberries,” she tempted him. “Scrambled eggs—they’re getting cold. Bacon. Sausage links. And,” she added, tugging back on the blankets, “some blueberry muffins I baked last night.”

“Muffins?” he asked, a glimmer of hope in his voice.

Martha smiled and stood. There was no greater appreciator of her culinary skills than the boy, although to be honest he ate almost anything, and a great deal of it. “Yes, muffins,” she assured him, politely turning her back to pick up some stray clothing as he threw the covers aside and got up.

“Well, maybe I could eat a little bit,” he allowed, padding into the main room to sit at the table. By the time Martha had tossed his clothes into the laundry hamper he had already devoured three-quarters of a muffin.

She stood before the table and pulled her PDA out of her pocket. This part of her job could sometimes be a little unpleasant, but nonetheless, it _was_ part of her job. “You remember your schedule for today, Tavi?” she asked carefully, calling it up on the handheld device.

He glanced up at her through thick eyelashes, then kept eating. “It’s Thursday, isn’t it?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“School at nine. I don’t have my homework done.”

Martha gave him a look. “Tavi.”

“It was _boring_ ,” he insisted sullenly, gulping his orange juice. “I hate geometry.” The assessors had determined the boy had difficulty with abstract concepts, although they had not yet decided if that was a personal trait or somehow related to his other extraordinary abilities.

“Gym at one,” Martha continued, skipping over the morning’s worth of classes. The boy grimaced. Usually he liked gym because it allowed him physical activity—he always seemed to have too much energy pent up inside—but Thursdays focused on balance and coordination, two things he just wasn’t very good at. Like any teenager who had rather suddenly sprouted to six-foot-four, he was constantly tripping over his own feet and knocking things over when he turned, and he felt like all the dance classes and yoga instruction in the world weren’t going to make him any more graceful.

“Which lab am I going to today?” he asked slowly, chewing on a sausage link.

Martha consulted the computer. “Dr. Costanza’s at four,” she replied. Physics. He was probably going to have to run with a speedometer or bend steel bars again. Easy enough. “Dr. Teng’s at 5:30.” Medical. Another blood sample, or exposure to the green crystals to check his responses. He didn’t like that at all. Martha tucked the PDA back into her pocket. “And I’ll be back here at 6:30 with dinner,” she finished, trying to sound cheerful. “Now don’t sit there and linger over your food,” Martha instructed him firmly, as he toyed with his last strip of bacon. “You’ve only got forty-five minutes until class. And you need to clean this place today.”

He wrinkled his nose. “What for?”

“Because it’s filthy,” Martha replied sternly. “All you have to do is put your things away and then the cleaning crew can come in during the day to dust and vacuum.”

“What’s the point?” he asked bitterly, not looking at her. “What does it matter if this place is clean or dirty?”

Martha sat down at the table with him. “Tavi,” she began, “it’s important to be clean and organized, it’s—healthier—“

“I don’t get sick,” he pointed out, unnecessarily.

“It’s healthier for your _mind_ ,” she continued, brushing some hair out of his face. “You’ll feel better if you’re living someplace that’s clean, instead of someplace dirty.”

“Really? How _much_ better?” The look of despair in his eyes was almost too much for her.

“At least a little bit,” she assured him, but her smile was sad. He nodded, not meeting her eyes. Martha glanced at her watch and stood. “I have to go now.” She had to write up her notes on the “breakfast encounter” before meeting with the project director at 9. “Don’t be late, alright?”

“Okay.” She was halfway to the door when he called after her. “Thanks, Mrs. Kent.”

Martha smiled at him but resisted the urge to tell him to have a nice day. It would be too painfully ironic. Instead she just waited to be let into the airlock again, already trying to distance the emotions she felt from the report she was going to write.

 

Octavian stripped off his t-shirt and pajama pants in the bathroom and tossed them out the door in the general direction of the laundry hamper. Two more things to pick up before he left for the day. He started the shower and turned the water temperature up as high as it would go, shutting the bathroom door behind him. There were cameras in here, too, of course, but he had learned that they often didn’t bother to watch him in the bathroom if he didn’t take too long or make any unusual sounds. The heat of the water didn’t bother him much; he could easily have taken an ice-cold shower, he supposed, but the warmth was mildly pleasant and the steam theoretically obscured the cameras a little bit more. The hot water also disrupted the temperature sensors that were tucked throughout the room, which meant he might be able to risk practicing one of the new powers he had discovered without anyone else finding out about it.

Strength, speed, and near invulnerability had been apparent since he was discovered as a young child, in a cornfield somewhere in Kansas following a devastating meteor shower. They told him that the green crystals that made up the meteorites emitted some kind of radiation that gave the people exposed to them that day special abilities, and that many of these people were somewhere at this facility being studied and “helped.” He had never seen any of them, though, and privately he wondered if that statement was even true. He had asked once—just once—if he had parents out there somewhere, who had given him up because of his unusual new abilities, and two days later the official answer had come down: No, they had searched and searched for his parents, but no one ever came forward to claim or identify him. They had probably been killed in the meteor shower, he was told, two of dozens of other victims that day.

As he had gotten older his strength and speed had increased, and he became more and more resistant to harm. Incidents that should have broken bones caused only a bruise when he was a child, and now many didn’t even leave a temporary red mark. This was thrilling to the scientists who studied him; but Octavian knew enough now to conceal the _new_ powers that had begun to develop in the last couple years. He didn’t want to give them anything else to probe and experiment and test. And he also had the idea that, perhaps, one day, he could take them by surprise with his new abilities... take them by surprise, and—leave. Escape.

The X-ray vision had been fairly easy to conceal. It gave him headaches at first, leading to much scanning of his brain with the MRI, but the headaches had passed and the researchers had found nothing new on his scans. He could practice it almost anytime, anywhere, just by refocusing his eyes, and all it looked like he was doing was staring off into space, which he did a lot anyway. He found it most helpful for seeing beyond the two-way mirrors into the control room filled with technicians and computers, or beyond the airlock door into the hallway filled with meteor rock-armed guards. The only substance he _couldn’t_ see through, it turned out, was lead, the same material that shielded him from the effects of the meteor rocks. It was an interesting correlation that he filed away for later study.

The enhanced hearing had been easy to get away with also. Again, when it first appeared, he’d had some trouble, because everything sounded _so loud_ , even whispers and soft footfalls... but once he’d learned to control it, he stopped screaming and clutching his head every time an elevator dinged, and his keepers were left thinking it was some kind of temporary reaction to a test they’d done. Now he could hear what the doctors were saying two rooms away, going over the latest results while he got dressed, and he could hear the bored techs gossip about when the project director was coming to observe him. It had really been quite useful, although most of the time he of course had to act like he _didn’t_ know what they were saying.

The “heat vision,” as he liked to call it, was more problematic. Hence practicing in the hot shower, where it was already hot and also wet enough to put out any minor fires he sparked quickly. When the goal was to emit fire, or perhaps laser-like beams of heat, from one’s eyes, it was hard to conceal the resulting flames or melted objects, and unfortunately the researchers now suspected he might be able to start fires with his mind, or at least cause objects around him to increase in temperature. Tavi had been very careful, however, and as a result, several months later, the scientists still had only theories to explain the handful of mysterious fires, no laboratory evidence. The power had actually been relatively easy to control, although fine-tuning it was difficult; figuring out what had triggered it in the first place had been the major obstacle to overcome. It turned out to be thoughts of sex, which he guessed made sense in a way. All the movies he was allowed to watch seemed to indicate that sex was a frequent topic of thought for a teenage male, and that self-pleasure to said thoughts a perfectly natural activity, but he somehow doubted the fictional teenage protagonists had to perform this activity while technicians or researchers watched from behind walls that gave only the _illusion_ of privacy. Mentally speaking, that constraint put quite a damper on Tavi’s desire to participate in this “normal” act.

There was one new ability the scientists had discovered despite Tavi’s efforts, but it seemed that no matter what either side did, it was impossible to reproduce willfully. One night the techs had spotted him _floating_ above his bed, a good three feet apparently, and when he had awakened from his dream—about Brooke Shields in _The Blue Lagoon_ , incidentally, so he was just glad he hadn’t set his pillow on fire as well—he had crashed back down onto the mattress rather forcefully. The floating seemed to occur only when he was asleep, and only maybe once or twice a month at irregular intervals. Still, this was enough for the researchers to periodically drag him to the ceiling of the largest room and drop him fifty feet to the concrete floor, hoping he would fly or at least hover at some point. Instead all they got were cracks and craters in their floor. Neither the fall nor the impact actually _hurt_ Tavi in anyway way, but ironically he was still afraid of heights and he dreaded those tests more than almost any other. He tried working on this power on his own, too, attempting to float a bit in the shower now and then, but it seemed to be beyond his control at the moment.

The bar of soap was half-melted and misshapen from the bursts of heat from his eyes, but he easily molded it back into an approximation of the proper shape with his hands. It was difficult to find objects to practice on—scorched washcloths or melted shampoo bottles would be a little hard to explain. And the last thing he wanted was for them to start keeping an even _closer_ eye on them.

Tavi hurriedly finished his shower, brushed his teeth, and grabbed some clothes he thought were clean. The guards would be coming to get him in about five minutes, according to the atomic clock on the wall—more than enough time to blur around his rooms shoving books onto the shelves and stuffing clothes into the hamper. The techs loved it when he actually used one of his abilities in front of them—otherwise their jobs were pretty boring, watching him watch TV, watching him read, watching him _sleep_. Tavi couldn’t really be angry at them specifically, especially not since he was able to see and hear them with his abilities. They were just low-level guys paid to sit around and find ways to make “He ate dinner” seem interesting and impressive in their reports. And they apparently weren’t paid all that much, given their constant grumblings on the subject. As much as Tavi resented their constant presence, he couldn’t actually find reason to _hate_ them. Some of the researchers, on the other hand...

 

After five years of working at the company, Martha had gotten over her sense of awkwardness at sharing the halls and elevators with young professionals dressed in suits and ties; she could always tell when someone was new, because they did a double-take at her casual long-sleeved t-shirts and jeans. A formal suit would have made Tavi feel uncomfortable around her, she knew, and her job was to make him feel comfortable. As comfortable as he could in what amounted to a giant ant farm, anyway.

Sometimes Martha wondered what exactly had happened to the sense of ethics she had _thought_ was so finely-honed in her. Ten years ago, she would have been appalled to see anyone treated this way, kept captive and studied and experimented upon, no matter how “special” they were. Well, she was still appalled, she supposed... but she still received a generous check each month stamped _LuthorCorp_. The fact that she was employed as a caregiver to Tavi—a sort of mother figure, if you will—softened her guilt somewhat, since she had always been very clear that his well-being was going to be her first priority. But she never thought for a moment that someday, if he managed to leave the facility and sought revenge either legally or otherwise, she would somehow be exempt from blame.

Jonathan must have turned over in his grave so many times since she took this job, she thought sometimes. Especially since she was working for Lionel Luthor, who had cheated so many of their friends and neighbors out of their land in and around Smallville during his efforts to expand his fertilizer empire. Things had always been so black-and-white to Jonathan: farmers were good, industrialists bad; lawyers, like her father, were bad, too, even though Martha had wanted to be one before she’d met Jonathan; independence was good, spending hard-earned money on hired hands to help with farm chores was bad. She’d persuaded him to employ one or two other people, occasionally, during certain busy seasons, but Jonathan had always been a stubborn man. Maybe, if there had been an employee with him to help during the accident, or even a child to run back and tell her—

But Martha had always been a practical woman, and she knew thinking about “if’s” didn’t do anyone any good. Her husband had died; there were no children; the farm was in debt and had to be sold; and Metropolis had offered a familiar anonymity that Martha found more comfortable than the pitying gazes and painful memories scattered across Smallville like those meteor rocks. And LuthorCorp offered a steady paycheck for work that was pleasant—if she didn’t think about the overall picture too much—and allowed her to put her education to use. And now she really had to stop brooding so much, because she was almost at her boss’s office and she needed to _act_ professionally, even if she wasn’t exactly dressed that way.

Carol smiled at her, said good morning, and announced her presence over the intercom, and a moment later Martha was sent in to the spacious office of the project director. Mr. Gielgud rose from his chair courteously, as he always did, and gave her a polite smile. “Martha. So nice to see you this morning.”

“Good morning, Mr. Gielgud,” Martha replied to the older man. His body language seemed somehow _off_ , which worried her.

“Before we get to our meeting today, Martha, there’s someone I’d like to you meet.” He gestured off to the side, and Martha turned to see the figure in the corner she’d overlooked when she came it. “This is Lex Luthor. Mr. Luthor, Mrs. Kent—Octavian’s caregiver.”

The young man—early 20’s, she guessed, not so much older than Tavi—shook her hand firmly, with a smile that was just charming enough to make Martha wonder _why_ he felt the need to charm her. She would have recognized him without the introduction, of course; Lionel Luthor’s son was a familiar fixture in the tabloids she glanced at while in line at the grocery store. Being completely bald was also a rather distinctive feature, although Martha noticed it did nothing to detract from his overall good looks.

“Mrs. Kent. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he assured her. She doubted the sincerity of that statement, but at least he didn’t _sound_ like one of the obsequious paper-pushers Mr. Gielgud was often surrounded by. “I’ve heard nothing but good things about you from your colleagues.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Luthor,” she answered, automatically wondering why, exactly, he’d been asking people about her. She hoped it wasn’t another of those ridiculous performance reviews, this time with the CEO’s son acting the role of the ill-informed bean counter.

Mr. Luthor gave her a small smile that was somewhere between amused and rueful, and Martha wondered if her questions had shown in her eyes. The younger man stepped back and glanced at Mr. Gielgud expectantly. The white-haired man cleared his throat a bit awkwardly and announced, “Mr. Luthor will be taking over as project director upon my... retirement.”

Martha turned wide eyes upon her supervisor. “Mr. Gielgud—I didn’t realize you were retiring.” He’d been with the project—in charge of Octavian, that is—for nearly ten years and had never mentioned leaving, as far as Martha knew.

The older man shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I’ve been—thinking about it for some time now...”

Martha knew instantly that he was lying, but a glance at Mr. Luthor’s professional, faintly smiling expression told her nothing. Nothing new, anyway. “Well, um, that’s... wonderful, Mr. Gielgud,” Martha stammered, remembering what it was one said in these circumstances. She forced a smile onto her face. “When are you leaving?”

“At the end of today.”

Alright, they had _officially_ passed the point of credulity. Martha had always been under the impression—from their expansive budget, if nothing else—that this particular operation was quite valuable to the company. And you just didn’t replace the man who’d been running things for ten years with a—untested, completely inexperienced young man. Even if he _was_ the CEO’s son. “I don’t understand—“ Martha began.

Uncharacteristically, Mr. Gielgud cut her off abruptly. “I’m sorry to tell you so late, Martha,” he assured her brusquely. “I wish I could have told you earlier, but circumstances prevented it.” He didn’t look at her _or_ Mr. Luthor as he settled back into his seat and gestured for Martha to take her usual place. “Mr. Luthor will be observing many parts of our operation today and taking complete charge tomorrow. I know he’ll quickly realize what a valuable part of the project you are.”

The last statement sounded almost like a veiled warning towards the young man who had seated himself on the couch along the wall and Martha glanced between the two of them in suspicious confusion. Something very odd was going on here, and she didn’t like it at all.

“Now, how was Octavian this morning?” Mr. Gielgud was making an effort to conduct their morning meeting with normality, so Martha hurriedly pulled out her report and vowed to think the situation over later.

 

Promptly at 6:20 that evening, Martha arrived at the security station outside Tavi’s room bearing the dinner tray provided by the nutritionist. Ironically, with the boy’s abilities, slipping potential weapons to him in his food or on the person of the woman delivering it was not a concern; he was potentially dangerous enough _without_ weapons that their presence didn’t matter. Therefore the ten minutes were filled with the usual swipes of Martha’s security pass and a fingerprint scan, the multiple reports logging her arrival by the guards, and idle chit-chat as they waited for the remote security center to authorize her entrance into the room.

Martha asked about the guards’ wives and children, their weekend plans, their reading material for the long night shift. Then, at 6:29, she asked what she always asked: “How was he tonight?”

Usually one of the guards just shrugged and said, “The usual,” or “Tired, I guess,” to describe the mood of the teenager when he was escorted back to his rooms shortly after six. Tonight, however, the guard named Gordon—who worked four night shifts a week, MTuWTh, and had two pre-teen daughters and a Great Dane named Marty—shook his head with a frown, and Martha felt her heart stop momentarily. “They brought him back unconscious,” he reported quietly.

Martha took a deep breath and immediately faced the first set of doors just as the indicator above them beeped and flashed. They slid apart and she stepped inside the airlock. Once again, she was sealed in for just a few seconds, then the next doors opened and she walked into the darkened living room. She flipped the light on before proceeding, in case Tavi had not in fact cleaned up anything. The floor seemed fairly clear, however, and she immediately set the tray down on the table and knocked on the shut bedroom door.

“Tavi,” she called gently. “Tavi, are you awake?” He didn’t usually go to bed this early, of course, but when he’d had a particularly bad day...

Martha slid the door open and carefully approached the lump on the bed silhouetted by the light from the living room. “Tavi?” The lump was shaking. Martha knew her heart had started beating again because she felt it break.

“Tavi?” She settled down on the edge of the bed and pulled the covers back a little bit, exposing the dark curly hair she loved to run her fingers through. Maybe she wouldn’t cut it after all, if he didn’t care. “Are you alright, sweetie?” Stupid question, of course, but she had to ask.

Her only response was a series of sniffles and she immediately dug a Kleenex out of the box under the bed. Tavi didn’t get sick, certainly, but his nose still ran when he cried. A hand emerged to take the offered tissue and there was some snuffling and blowing from beneath the blankets. Then the crumpled Kleenex was defiantly heaved out onto the floor and the covers hitched back up. Martha sighed and wrapped her arms around the bundle of blankets, rocking him gently. She didn’t allow herself to visualize the kinds of experiments the boy was subjected to at this place, all in the hopes of determining the extent of his abilities and their exact cause. She read the reports that she was allowed, obviously, but seeing the flat scientific terms on the page was hardly the same as imagining, or worse witnessing, the acts in real life. Every time she turned her mind from those pictures Martha felt like a coward, and she had never felt like that more in her life since she’d started to work here. And yet she couldn’t bring herself to leave, because then who would sit here at the boy’s side and treat him like, well, a sixteen-year-old boy instead of a research subject?

“Shhh, shhh, sweetie, it’ll be alright,” she crooned to him, although she actually doubted that it would.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, awkwardly, on the edge of the bed, leaning over his warm body; she knew she almost fell asleep more than once, so it must have been a while. Finally she sat up slowly, thinking his silence meant he must be asleep, and prepared to slip from the room.

“Mrs. Kent?”

She sat back down quickly. “What can I get for you, honey?” she asked brightly, brushing the dark hair out of the eyes that had emerged from the blankets. “Your dinner’s probably cold by now but it might be alright...”

He shook his head; he wasn’t hungry, at least not for food. “Tell me about the farm.”

Martha smiled a little. Tavi was fascinated by stories of the farm she and Jonathan had had in Smallville, the one that had been in her husband’s family for three generations. The one she had sold after his death, when there were no more generations of Kents for it to be in. “What do you want to hear about?”

“Anything.”

Martha thought for a moment. “Do you remember the story about the black Morgans that got loose in the pasture? I haven’t told it for a long time...”

Tavi smiled faintly in the dark. He remembered everything Mrs. Kent said to him, especially about the farm. “No, I don’t recall it,” he replied. “Tell me again?”

 

Carol was still sitting outside the door of the project director’s office when Martha arrived for her 9am meeting, and in fact everything looked so normal she was almost surprised when the door opened to reveal the young, bald man sitting behind the desk she associated with her long-time boss. “Good morning, Mrs. Kent,” Mr. Luthor greeted her. He didn’t stand up the way Mr. Gielgud always had, but then again Martha always felt a little silly being so formal, especially when she was wearing sneakers, jeans, and a sweatshirt with an embroidered apple tree on it.

“Good morning, Mr. Luthor.” She seated herself on the opposite side of the desk, pulling out the report she’d composed. He was already looking over the version she’d just e-mailed him a few minutes ago, which could be nice—Mr. Gielgud had never really gotten the “instantaneous” part of e-mail.

There was a pause as he finished skimming the screen, then he turned clear blue-grey eyes on Martha and asked seriously, “So—how was Octavian this morning?”

“Well, it’s Friday...” she began, then realized her new boss wouldn’t, of course, be familiar with the shorthand she and Mr. Gielgud had developed over the past five years. Mr. Luthor raised an eyebrow in bemusement. “On Fridays Octavian has art for two hours, which he enjoys, but he also has to speak to the psychiatrist in the afternoon, and he doesn’t like that at all.”

“Never my favorite activity, either,” Mr. Luthor commented offhandedly.

Martha didn’t know what to say to that, so she pressed on. “I’d say he was in his usual sort of mood—slow to get up, but he didn’t eat his dinner the night before, so he was extra hungry for breakfast...”

“Yes, I see,” Mr. Luthor mused, glancing at her report on his computer. “He didn’t have a good afternoon yesterday.” He looked her right in the eye. “Did he tell you about it?”

Martha shook her head. “He doesn’t usually tell me _what_ he does, exactly. But he _was_ very upset last night. I heard he was brought to his rooms from the labs unconscious.”

Mr. Luthor easily picked up on the hint of disapproval she allowed in her tone. “The research can be exhausting, of course. Even for someone with Octavian’s abilities.” He could see she didn’t accept that answer, but she said nothing. After a moment he turned away from his computer and settled back into his chair. Martha wondered if that was his way of dismissing her, since her morning meetings really didn’t last that long unless it was Monday and time for her weekly assessment. However, the younger man launched into another topic of discussion. “I’m sure you must find my presence on this project very sudden, Mrs. Kent.”

Martha had a better poker face than a stranger might normally guess, and she employed it now. “Well, Mr. Gielgud _has_ been the project director for a long time...”

Mr. Luthor smiled a little bit, a rueful half-smile. “And I’m the CEO’s son.” Martha said nothing to that. “The truth is, Mrs. Kent, I became interested in the Octavian Project several months ago and I’ve been keeping an eye on it. After reviewing all the records I decided that it was time for a few changes to be made. My father agreed with me.”

“Changes?” Martha wasn’t certain what he meant, of course, but in her five years with the company she had seen that ‘change’ was usually for the negative, at least for Tavi.

“Yes. I noticed that there were certain—flaws in the way the project was being run,” Mr. Luthor continued. “I don’t put the blame entirely on your former supervisor,” he hastened to add. “Mr. Gielgud was using methods that had worked well in the past. However, it was obvious to me from the lack of progress being made in the last few years that those methods were outdated.”

“Lack of progress?” Martha hated being just a parrot in this one-sided conversation, but she felt like she was stumbling around in the dark here. “But all the tests they do...”

“Oh, we know that Octavian is getting stronger, faster, more resistant to harm,” Mr. Luthor confirmed. “But we haven’t come any closer to figuring out _how_ or _why_ he’s able to do these things. Additionally, there have been several tantalizing hints of additional abilities he may possess, or potentially possess, which I feel have not been followed up on properly.”

Great, that was _just_ what the boy needed, even _more_ rigorous tests and experiments. “Do you mean the... floating?” Martha asked. She had read the brief reports about this power he had apparently developed and actually seen it once herself, when she went to wake him for breakfast one morning and found him hovering three feet above the mattress, sound asleep.

“The floating is the most obvious possibility,” Mr. Luthor agreed. “But there have been a number of other suspicious incidents in the last two years—the unexplained fires, headaches, fits. These... symptoms have, in my opinion, either been dismissed far too easily or investigated using only the crudest methods.” The young man took in Martha’s expression and smiled a little again. “You don’t think an even more varied and probing array of tests would be good for Octavian.”

“Well, Mr. Luthor,” Martha admitted carefully, “my _job_ is to assess his overall well-being, not in terms of _your_ scientific understanding, but rather his _own_ emotional and mental health. And in my opinion that health will be negatively affected by having Octavian spend even _more_ time in the labs.” She hoped she had couched her opinion in terms that were formal enough for her new boss.

“Having read your reports, and those of the psychiatrist, I tend to agree with you,” Mr. Luthor replied easily, and Martha tried not to look _too_ startled. “I’ve also noticed there’s been a sharp increase in the disciplinary reports over the past two or three years.” Martha nodded and found herself momentarily dropping her eyes to her lap, as if slightly embarrassed. It wasn’t easy to hear that the child in your charge was badly behaved, even if privately you thought he was probably completely justified in his actions. “That alone could indicate Octavian’s decreasing tolerance for his... activities here.” He called up another file on his computer screen, then looked back at Martha. “Another flaw in the previous management. Octavian isn’t very happy.”

“Well, of—“ Martha stopped herself from exclaiming something too emotional and tried again. “I agree that he is quite _un_ happy most of the time, moving closer towards clinical depression every day. He already complains about pain and discomfort which I think must be psychosomatic in nature.” For a moment she thought that was all she was going to say, then she felt like she had to continue. “Mr. Luthor, I understand—in a way—why he’s kept here, why he’s treated like he is. But to have lived thirteen years with no real family, no privacy, no freedom, unable to explore the world around him or even interact with people his own age—not even _mentioning_ all the tests and experiments—it should hardly be surprising that he’s unhappy. In fact the only thing I find surprising is that he isn’t _suicidal_ by now.”

The office was silent for a moment, and Martha wondered if she’d said too much. But no, she decided, that needed to be said. She had actually held herself back from everything she _could_ have said.

“Mrs. Kent,” the young man finally commented, “I’m glad that we’re of the same mind on this subject.” This time Martha’s poker face failed her. “It will make it that much easier to implement some of the other changes I’ve been thinking about it.” He glanced at the file on the computer, ignoring Martha’s surprised reaction. “The increased disciplinary incidents, for example—if Octavian starts to become uncooperative, the researchers know that the first thing they’re supposed to do is try to talk him back down.” Martha nodded. She had had a full day’s training session when she began her job, with half-day annual refresher seminars. “But in almost all cases, that doesn’t work and they quickly pull out the meteor fragments. Have you ever seen the effect they have on him?”

Martha nodded quickly, not wanting to think about it too much. “In one of the training videos they showed several clips.” It was gruesome.

“It’s a remarkable effect, from a scientific point of view,” Mr. Luthor observed, “but practically speaking, they produce pain, nausea, weakness, spasms—they can even incapacitate Octavian. With this kind of severe reaction, I feel like they’re used too often.”

Martha could hardly believe what she was hearing. How many times had she mentioned that to Mr. Gielgud during her weekly assessments, after reading too many disciplinary reports in which Tavi was tortured with those horrible rocks for making any complaint at all? Her former boss had always nodded understandingly and made a note about it, but as far as she knew nothing ever changed. Of course, it was possible Mr. Luthor’s sympathetic opinion could be all talk as well...

“You also have a remarkable effect, Mrs. Kent,” the young man continued, again with that half-smile.

Martha snapped out of her own thoughts quickly. “Me?”

“You go into Octavian’s rooms twice a day, six days a week. Sometimes you spend several hours with him at a time,” Mr. Luthor pointed out. “And yet in the five years you have worked here, you have never once used the meteor fragment on him.”

“Well, um—“ Martha found herself sputtering a little at the praise. At least, she _thought_ it was praise. “I’m usually bringing him food, so he tends to be glad to see me...”

“You make him get up in the morning, you make him go to bed in the evening, you chide him when he hasn’t done his homework or cleaned his room or eaten his vegetables,” Mr. Luthor countered. “There are scientists here who have learned to fear the mere sight of this boy and the idea of dealing with him for an hour twice a month. So what _is_ your secret, Mrs. Kent?”

“I, um—I just try to be kind to him, Mr. Luthor,” Martha answered honestly, no matter how corny it might sound. “I just try to—look after him like he’s a teenage boy, and not... the subject of the Octavian Project.”

“He trusts you.”

“To a certain extent, I suppose.”

Mr. Luthor leaned forward over the desk. “That’s why I was hoping I could count on you to help with alternate disciplinary measures.” Martha let her confusion show. “I realize that your work schedule has been very regular for the past five years—you usually get here at what, seven in the morning?” Martha nodded. “Wake Octavian at eight, report to your supervisor at nine, and then you normally leave the building by ten. Is that correct?”

“Yes. And then of course I come back here at 5:30, so I can read the day’s reports before bringing him dinner at 6:30,” Martha added.

“Then you stick around until 10 to make sure he’s gone to bed,” Mr. Luthor finished. “So you usually work seven to eight hours a day, every day but Sunday, but you have the time from 10am to 5:30pm or so free.” Martha nodded slowly, uncertain what he was getting at. “One of my ideas, Mrs. Kent, is for _you_ —someone Octavian trusts—to go to him when he’s being uncooperative and try to calm him down, in the hopes of reducing dependence on the meteor fragments.”

Martha thought for a moment, then replied hesitantly, “Mr. Luthor... Octavian _trusts_ me because I don’t _abuse_ that trust. If I were to walk into a lab and tell him to... get back on the table or to let the scientists continue their experiment—that trust would evaporate very quickly.” She swallowed, then added, “And I wouldn’t _want_ to do that anyway. If he was uncomfortable or in pain, I don’t think I _could_ tell him he had to continue it.”

Mr. Luthor nodded, as if he had anticipated her reaction. “I understand that, Mrs. Kent. I wouldn’t ask you to do something you didn’t feel was right.” Considering her job as a whole, Martha somehow doubted that statement was true. “I was thinking more along the lines of trying to prevent injury to any of the personnel. Or to Octavian.”

“I suppose if that were what I was doing...” Martha began carefully, “...then I would be happy to help. If I could.”

“It would involve changing your schedule,” Mr. Luthor warned her. “Obviously if we’re having a discipline problem, you would need to be at the scene as soon as possible. Perhaps you could stay here in the building in the afternoons and evenings, when Octavian tends to be more... volatile, and we can have someone else wake him in the mornings.”

Martha didn’t even think before she shook her head. “I don’t mind staying in the building all day, Mr. Luthor,” she assured him. “My office is perfectly comfortable, and if I have the mornings while Octavian is in school to run errands, I’ll be fine.”

Mr. Luthor’s expression was distinctly negative. “Mrs. Kent, I can’t ask you to spend all day, every day, here on the off chance Octavian will misbehave. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“Well,” Martha suggested, “perhaps—if you really _are_ interested in making changes that will be beneficial to Octavian—perhaps the discipline problems will decrease after a little while and I won’t need to be ‘on call’ as much.”

There was a challenge in her eyes, and her new boss smiled as he caught it. “Well I hope that’s the way it works out as well, Mrs. Kent. I appreciate your devotion to this project.”

“Being a parent is a twenty-four-hour job, Mr. Luthor,” Martha responded, surprising even herself. “I’m sure you know that I used to live in Smallville with my late husband. If we had found Octavian, the day of the meteor shower, instead of your father, I would be dealing with the same abilities, the same uncertainties, as you are... but I’d never be able to clock out at the end of the day.” Mr. Luthor looked so serious that Martha felt uncomfortable and tried to lighten the mood a bit. “And I wouldn’t be getting paid nearly as much...”

The young man smiled, just a little, and stood, which Martha took as a sign that the meeting was over. “I’m glad we had this talk, Mrs. Kent,” he assured her. “I’m not sure what the policies of your previous supervisor were, but I want you to know that I consider you an extremely valuable part of this project and I want you to come to me any time you have questions or concerns about Octavian. Why don’t we start your new schedule on Monday?”

“That would be fine,” Martha agreed, rising. “Thank you, Mr. Luthor.”

“Thank _you_ , Mrs. Kent.”

 

**************

 

Martha gave a gentle push to the wooden fence and watched it collapse at her feet. “It’s no good,” she sighed, shaking her head. “The bolts have rusted through. I’m afraid we’ll have to repair the whole thing.”

The teenage boy beside her looked to the left, where the fence stretched away into the distance, separating the edge of their property from the neighbor’s. He had no idea how to fix a fence, but if they had to replace each bolt that he saw, it could take hours. The summer sun was blazing down on them, and an afternoon that had once been completely empty of tasks was now, it seemed, full.

He couldn’t be happier. “Great!” Martha looked for a hint of sarcasm or disappointment in the boy’s expression but she saw none. “Fixing a fence,” he mused pleasantly, tapping at a post the way Martha had. Instead of merely falling over, however, the wood snapped and splintered.

He looked guiltily at Martha and shoved his hands in his jean pockets. She smiled a little and rubbed his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, sweetie,” she assured him. “Now,” Martha continued, turning back to the truck, “we’ll just go to the barn and get some bolts, and then we’ll come back here and get started, okay?”

She was at the driver’s side door when she noticed he wasn’t following. “Would it be okay if I stayed here? And waited for you?” he asked tentatively.

Martha smiled. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that he wanted to spend as much time outdoors as possible, instead of in the cab of a truck. “Of course, honey,” she replied warmly. He grinned, brighter than the sun, and Martha had to tear herself away to drive back to the barn.

After the truck had rumbled out of sight, he just stood there in the sun for a long moment, feeling the light and the warmth penetrate to the core. There were so many colors and sounds and smells assaulting his senses, things he’d never been exposed to before—the feel of the old wood versus the tree bark versus the grass versus the leaves, the complex mixture of flowers and grass and earth and manure and smoke on the wind, the chirping of birds and the buzzing of bees and the rustling of leaves and the clopping of horses—

He turned suddenly, spotting the horse and rider at the far end of the pasture, and his first instinct was to run and hide. A person, a stranger, someone he knew nothing about, someone who knew nothing about him. The figure rode closer, having spotted him while he stood frozen to the spot, and he knew he couldn’t disappear now without raising too many questions. So he stood his ground by the fence, trying to look calm, while his heart pounded in his chest.

As the horse and rider drew closer, he was even more startled—the rider was... a girl. About his own age. And then he _really_ wanted to vanish, because he had no idea what to say to her—he’d had few enough opportunities for conversation anyway, and never, as far as he could recall, with someone who counted as a peer. And a girl, at that.

A beautiful girl, he was stunned to realize, as she slowed her horse on the other side of the fence. Shiny dark hair, exotic eyes, a nose that wrinkled up when she smiled with even, white teeth. He was suddenly very conscious of his own wind-mussed hair, dirty clothes, and awkward stance, and he shifted uncomfortably.

“Hi,” the girl said with a friendly smile.

“H-hi,” he stammered in reply, blushing furiously. He felt like an idiot already.

“Did you just move in?” she asked, after a moment of silence. “To the Kent farm?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I’m Oc—Clark Kent.” The name sounded odd on his lips.

She smiled again, and the sun was behind her head like a halo in a medieval painting. “Then we’re neighbors,” she concluded pleasantly. “I’m Lana Lang. I live with my aunt Nell about a mile from your house.”

Neighbors! That such a beautiful creature lived so close to him was almost too good to be true. Clark grinned at her and struggled for something to say. “That’s a nice horse,” he finally told her, although of course he had no idea whether it was nice or not.


End file.
